


The Fourth Woman

by brutti_ma_buoni



Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: F/M, Misses Clause Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28132842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutti_ma_buoni/pseuds/brutti_ma_buoni
Summary: In July 1938, Hazel and the Junior Pinkertons catch up in a public place. It doesn't seem like a good start to an adventure. But it will be.
Relationships: Alexander Arcady/Hazel Wong
Comments: 12
Kudos: 19
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Fourth Woman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [molybdomantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/molybdomantic/gifts).



> This whole post-series setting means big spoilers for Death Sets Sail.

July 1938

I have learned to enjoy an English station tearoom. We don’t precisely have such things in Hong Kong, and they are not the most comfortable locations I have known. Particularly not in July, when crowds are going to the country. And particularly when you look as I do, or as George does. The staff are usually polite, but not often friendly, although they fall over themselves to serve Alexander. There are, however, buns aplenty. So I make do. 

The point about station tearooms is that they are at stations, of course. There is much coming and going. In this case, when we are at Paddington, I am coming from Deepdean and heading to Cambridge for a summer to be spent in additional tuition. I take the Cambridge entrance examinations next November, and although I am confident that I can pass, my father wants me to have every opportunity. Also, of course, there is nowhere much else for me to go this summer. I try not to be too down about this, but the fact is that since Daisy “died”, my time in England is parcelled out rather uncomfortably between school and the homes of schoolmates who are not Daisy, and never will be. Easter was with Lavinia’s family, and we have quietly agreed that although _of course it was marvellous to have you staying_ , it would not be suitable for the summer holidays. Which are, of course, much longer. 

George and Alexander are coming, from school, and going, to stay in the Cotswolds with one of Alexander’s complicated cousins. We are here, notionally, so that Alexander and I can see one another. Although our families do not entirely approve of us seeing each other, because we are young they say (I think there may perhaps be other factors), they are indulgent about such opportunities as this for our paths to cross. They think, rightly, that we will not indulge in inappropriate behaviour in a tearoom at Paddington station. Especially not with all our trunks and hand luggage, and George at the table too. George has a particularly ironic way of looking at Alexander and me when we do feel inappropriate, and nothing quashes the feeling quite so effectively. He would make a marvellous governess in a Victorian play about stifled passions. I have not told him this, but sometimes it comforts me to imagine it. 

So there are perfectly good reasons why we are sitting here, with half a rock cake still on a plate and no intention of moving for at least one more hour. But that is not why we are here. 

“I’m sure she’s a waitress,” says Alexander. “Behind you, you know? Waitstaff always appear over your shoulder.” 

“Not in this tearoom,” George points out. There is table service here, but of the kind that bustles and announces its presence. Our waitress is called Tilly and she has been over three times already since we sat down, and told us her views on the weather, the Henley crowds, and her evening plans. She is definitely not Daisy Wells. 

“Behind you is such a… simple clue,” I say, frustratedly. Usually when Daisy sets up a rendez-vous it is by puzzle, and they often drive us mad cracking ciphers or solving riddles. This place (a simple substitution code), this time (a rather more complex cipher which Alexander and George had to put before their maths master to be sure their guess was right; short messages are so difficult if they contain numbers) and then a plain text “ _Behind you_ ” don’t feel sufficient for us to grasp. My case notes are blank. 

What is behind us? Well, it depends whose back you are referring to, as our table is a round one. But there are walls, windows, Platform 1 and the Penzance sleeper. I rather think the wall behind me conceals the ladies’ lavatory. I shall have to visit that at some point, but I do hope Daisy isn’t hiding there. It would be uncomfortable, and the Pinkertons would be disappointed not to see her. 

Behind us are other customers, too. A small clutch of cub scouts with a harassed and balding scoutmaster. A young mother with an awful sticky baby which keeps toddling over and trying to put its hands on my skirt. A very stout and worried lady who keeps looking at her wristwatch. There was an ancient woman with an imperious manner who is exactly the kind of character type Daisy would love to act. But she left just after we arrived. Perhaps because we all looked so very hard at her, trying to decide whether Daisy could manage that level of disguise. (Not the old, thin skin, I think. She can do the voice and the manner, but the cruel way old age takes people’s outside down is not something Daisy can mimic. She is too healthy and outdoor for that. It is a young look, which I must have too. Even if the period since Daisy “died” has felt very long, and very serious.)

We stared at a smart train conductress too, when she came in “gasping for a cuppa”. But she rushed out without looking twice at us, and we saw her climb aboard a Cardiff express. So if she was Daisy, she did us no good. We are, I think, running out of expectation. Daisy’s new work is so complex, and seems so grown up compared with our school lives, that we have always expected she will someday not make one of our appointments. And it has been nice, talking to George, while wishing quietly that Alexander and I could have just a few minutes without him. But it would be _better_ to see Daisy. It is always better to see Daisy. 

“Thomas! Stop that!” shrieks the young mother. Again. 

The toddler does not stop, and yet again makes it to our table, and to my skirt. There is jam on his hands. 

“I’m simply dreadfully sorry,” says the woman, coming over to our table. “We were just playing ‘behind you’ and I’m afraid he’s started to take it literally.”

If anyone from a foreign power is watching our table (and it is not impossible, as you will see), they will most certainly have become aware that something has happened. The mother is really very, very young. And the baby, now one comes to look at it, is slightly familiar. 

He looks like Uncle Felix. Everyone says so, even at his christening when he was barely a blob in a lace gown. (His christened name is not Thomas, of course, but I think it is sensible not to record his true name. Uncle Felix’s life is even more complicated and serious than Daisy’s.)

“You must let me buy you some more buns, to make it up to you,” says the young mother, who is not a mother. And who we must not call Daisy. “Would you mind awfully watching him while I track down a waitress? I can’t _live_ a moment longer without a pot of proper tea.”

I can see George wondering, as George always does, where Daisy got this character from. It is not Aunt Emily, certainly, much as it is her offspring who is currently being handed into my unwilling arms. In fact no one at Fallingford would haunt Paddington tearooms talking about pots of tea. Or, not outside the first class lounge. She is acting most impressively. Thomas tries to climb onto my lap as I wonder. And, annoyed, I let him, although he is awfully wriggly as well as sticky. It is hard to talk over his head, so Alexander and George and I simply exchange meaningful glances. 

“Oh, you are kind,” says Daisy, returning with a plate of cream horns. She knows I particularly love them. “I’ve been wrangling the little brute all day, and I simply had to have a minute with the use of my own arms. One shouldn’t say so, of course, but motherhood is awfully hard work.” She collapses into the empty fourth chair at our table, and beams at the waitress, who has followed with more tea. “If you wouldn’t mind hanging onto him until I’ve had a chance to pour a cup, I’d be most awfully grateful.”

I nod, silently. I am confused. Surely Daisy isn’t simply minding her cousin? She set us such a puzzle to get us here. But then, the _behind you_ clue wasn’t very complicated, and it does link to the baby. Perhaps this is not a new case at all. Perhaps Daisy is bored. 

Alexander looks at me, with a crook of a brow that means he’s wondering something similar. I try not to feel flustered at Thomas wriggles and complains on my knee. I do not dislike babies – my little brother Teddy is lovely. But I am not a natural, and somehow I feel I should be performing my womanly virtues for Alexander. It is very foolish, but I do want to look good in his eyes, and not only for my cryptographic skills. 

Daisy slurps, positively slurps, at her tea. She is definitely playing a character, which delights me rather. Not enough of a character to take back her child from a “stranger” though, so I remain stuck with Thomas as Daisy loudly makes sure they boys have a cream horn apiece. She has just enough of a sparkle about her that I start to relax. I don’t think Daisy is bored. 

“It’s simply ghastly,” she says, once the difficulty of politely eating a cream horn has silenced Alexander and even George. “My husband is in the South Seas, so I have to be down in Wotton all summer, with some friends who are summering with the most _frightful_ people, and it’s beastly hot in London but I do like _life_ here, don’t you know?”

I nod, politely. Daisy’s character is the kind of woman who makes me curl up inside, so sure that strangers will be interested in her tedious life. I can never give away so much, so easily. But of course neither does Daisy, or not without purpose. George has acquired a small cream moustache, but he is also very alert. He and Alexander are staying near Wotton-under-Edge this summer too. Is Daisy proposing they help her in a case? 

But of course, I am staying in Cambridge. Which is hopeless, the other side of England. If all my favourite people are in the Cotswolds having a mystery to solve, I shall be very disappointed. I am also still holding Thomas, and I have still not had a cream horn. My mood is not sunny. 

“Ghastly people,” Daisy continues. “Frightfully clever and mathematical, and mixed up in the most tedious political circles. I shall be singing the Red Flag at dawn, and Thomas will probably become rabidly revolutionary before he turns two.”

Alexander says, in a voice that I can tell is suppressing excitement, “Oh, will you be at Redlands Lodge? We’re staying nearby, at Wychwode.” 

Wychewode is a very, very grand house, I know. Only the grandest English houses have just the one name. But I’ve never heard of Redlands Lodge. 

George evidently has, because he is following up Alexander’s remark with something about the family knowing Professor Fothergill and his friends, and making a fascinating group with their Russian interests. Oh, I think. It’s a Soviet spy ring. Daisy and the Pinkertons are going to break a spy ring. I give a small sigh of jealousy, and decide not to put up with any more disappointment. 

“Those cream horns look marvellous,” I say, loudly. “I must have one at once, but I’m afraid little Thomas would get simply smothered in crumbs, so-“ I lift the baby up and out, prepared to insist Daisy takes him back. But surprisingly, George’s hands reach out, and he smiles at Thomas in what doesn’t seem to be fake enjoyment. 

I don’t think I looked that gracious holding Thomas. I have not shown myself up too well here, and Alexander is focused on Daisy still. What an annoying and disappointing day. Although the cream horn is indeed delicious, it is not too much comfort. 

As I clear the last smidgen from my plate, though, everything starts to change. Daisy is answering some question from Alexander, and the word _Cambridge_ catches my attention. “-only he’d stayed in Cambridge, but no. The Professor will be at Redlands all summer, worse luck. He’s had to move out of his college rooms for dry rot, apparently, and I do think that’s beastly hard lines on me. The other Fothergills aren’t too mouldy, but when the Prof visits, things do get tedious. I don’t suppose you play tennis, do you? I’d love to have some tennis parties to break up the drear.”

And there is the connection that Daisy will exploit, to build a Cotswold network and doubtless set the boys to tasks. I wonder why she isn’t simply briefing us straight out. Surely there isn’t a Russian agent watching her every move? I look once again around the tearoom inhabitants. Almost all of them look suspicious now. Oh dear. 

But if Daisy is insisting on staying in character, I had better do the same. And she has given me my cue. “Oh, goodness,” I say, brightly. “I do hope my college doesn’t have dry rot too! I’m spending the whole summer cramming in Cambridge. I do wish I could have some tennis parties too!”

(I detest tennis.)

“My brother is in Cambridge,” says Daisy, as if we don’t all know that Bertie has stayed up for a fourth year, to everyone’s surprise. “I’m sure he’d be pleased to take you punting. And show you the sights. I believe the women’s colleges are all awfully modern, but Bertie’s place is practically decrepit. I wasn’t surprised the Fothergill’s rooms were rotten, and he’d never notice. Apparently he invites all his little acolytes to sit on heaps of mouldy books instead of chairs and preaches to them about all men being equal while he has the comfiest armchair. I hate hypocrites like that.”

So it’s at _Maudlin_ that I shall have to focus. That is perfect. And I know that Harold will be at St John’s still, if I need help. Indeed, George is telling me so. “My brother can’t stand Fothergill,” he says. “Sorry if he’s a friend of your family, but goodness, he sounds dire.”

We are all faking personas now – and George sounds as bouncy and brainless as I do. How silly it is to be detecting again, with Soviet spies and not at all enough information for my mission. And how marvellous it is, too. 

It turns out, to nobody’s surprise, that Daisy is to take the same train to the Cotswolds as George and Alexander. George seems doomed to hold the baby all the way, and he doesn’t even look cross. Alexander and I exchange goodbyes and hand squeezes under the not-terribly-averted eyes of Daisy and George. 

“I will write,” I promise. In invisible ink, probably. And why not?

“Thanks awfully for minding the baby,” says Daisy to me. “I do hope Cambridge isn’t too ghastly in summer. Good luck with the dry rot.” She shakes my hand, briskly, as if doing me a great favour by treating me as an adult. 

In my palm when our hands separate is a very, very small folded note. I put it in my inside pocket, and it feels happily warm all the way for my tedious taxi journey across London with my luggage. I am heading to Cambridge alone, and I keep looking over my shoulder for Red agents, and a couple of hours in company with Alexander in a station tearoom is simply not enough to satisfy. And yet, I am so happy. 

The Cambridge train is not busy, and I believe I am safe to open Daisy’s note. It is a tiny report, all names and college affiliations and useful information. But squeezed down the left margin, there are tiny block capitals that simply say, DETECTIVE SOCIETY FOREVER.

And that is the best thing in the world.


End file.
